Whistler's Bay
by CoffeeKat
Summary: AU. After the death of her father, Relena Darlain's life has taken a drastic change, beginning with a move form her sunny California to the stormy Northeast.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. – This, I know, is an unfortunately AU story.  It grew out of my head, most likely the demon spawn  of Dawson's Creek or an equivalently moody teenager show that I detest.  It's not my usual style, for one thing it's first person, and I'm not sure how I like it.  

                Also, if you get through the sludgy, soppy, triteness of the first chapter, and read the second, please tell me whether they should have been combined.  They were originally, but I decided to try them separated.  Please send your opinions.

                Finally, if you're still reading at this stage, I took some poetic license with the ages of the people in the show.  It shouldn't mess things up too badly, and it's not so dramatically different.  And now I'll let you get on to the story.

Disclaimer:  I don't own them.  However I do own a small miniature Siamese Cat.  I think you can see the connection.

Chapter 1

We moved to Whistler's Bay in August of my thirteenth year of living.  Six months prior my father had passed away, the unfortunate victim of a heart attack.  Until his death, my mother had been a homemaker.  Really more of a home director, constantly instructing the cleaning crew, or advising the cook.  She was content with a credit card and a BA in nursing.  However, when Father died, my mother was forced to become self-sufficient.  The funds we had were quickly exhausted by the funeral, the creditors, and the cost of living.  Financially, emotionally bankrupt, my mother was forced to dust of her stethoscope and find a job.  She was hired at St. Catherine's Hospital in Birmington.  Within days she moved my brother and I across country to the city of Whistler's Bay.

                Westing Street was wildly different from anything I had known.  The street was a dusty, unpaved road perpendicular to another dirt track along the edge of the harbor.  The houses were rundown wooden affairs with one or two stories, weathered by sun and storm.  Sagging porches ran right up to the street, looking like they were about to collapse at any minute.  Barely a foot of dirt separated the homes from their neighbors on either side; the houses were backed up right on top of each other, only a thin alley of dust in between.  Out front a few battered cars are parked up against the porch, looking almost as dilapidated as the houses.

                Number 22 was a tired two-story home; it's blue paint faded and peeling.  One withered bush, and a few parched flowers, struggled to grow in the arid earth around the front step.   Inside was stained and dusty, and the wooden floors creaked with every step you took.  An old oven and a small refrigerator, combined with a sink and counter, were the extent of the kitchen.  A steep flight of stairs brought you into the second floor, where two bedrooms were crammed side by side.  But the builder, in a brilliant epiphany, had filled the walls with windows.  16 tall rectangles, 4 to a side, filling the house with light no matter in what direction the sun lay.  When open, the wind flows through the rooms, bringing in the salty ocean tang.

                My room possessed two windows, one of which opened on to sloping roof of our porch.  After we moved in, I became accustomed to stepping through my blue curtains just at dusk.  The grayed shingles still retained a little of the day's heat, and off over the bay the sun would set in the usual impressive blaze of glory.  Better though was as the night set in, and the warm tones faded gradually from the sky.  The deep blues and purples, never really black, took over the sky, leaving just the lightest pink over the water.  High and clear the stars shine, cold and dazzling.  There are no streetlights here to mask starlight with dim fluorescence.  Sitting there quietly in the dark, a soft breeze blowing in from the water, illuminated by a glowing moon, I came to accept my new life.

                It was on one such warm night that I met my next-door neighbor.  I had come on to the roof to enjoy the night, having spent the day unpacking the endless boxes.  I was staring vacantly at the bay, my mind far away, home in California.  I hadn't noticed the chill, or that I was shivering.  Unconsciously I rubbed at my bare arms, and tucked my legs in tight.

                My reverie was broken when a something soft and heavy struck me in the face.  For a moment I panicked, before I realized it was a sweatshirt.

                "It's a little cold for tank tops."  

                I snapped my head around towards the source of the voice.  A boy was sitting on the roof of the neighboring porch, his legs hanging over the edge.  About my age, he was scruffy and lean, from his tousled spiky hair to ragged cut off jeans.  In the waning light I could just see dark scabs covering his knees and lower legs, and a large gash along his forehead, just beneath his bangs.  I ran my eyes over his clothes, rumpled and obviously dirty; they had been worn hard and frayed.

                "It's not polite to stare," he said quietly, but evenly, his voice strong and controlled.  I blushed and ran my hand through my hair, quickly dropping my eyes to my knees in shame.  An awkward silence filled the gap, and I began to fidget, and play with the ends of my hair.  As the silence stretched on, I grew more nervous, twitching uncertainly.  The boy didn't seem to mind at all.  Calmly he leaned on his hands, swinging his feet.

                "The sweatshirt won't do you any good unless you wear it."

                I started sharply again and blushed, quickly pulling the clothing over my head.  The navy color had faded over time, and there were remnants of white lettering.  It was warm against my bare shoulders, causing the goosebumps to tingle.  

                "Do you speak at all?" he asked pointedly, staring at me intensely.  I flushed again, but not from embarrassment.  His callow tone had annoyed me, and I was determined to regain my composure.  Sitting up straight and tall, I shook my hair all down my back, then moved to the edge of the porch and locked his eyes.

                "I speak quite often, thank you.  Just not usually to strangers," I answered, infusing my voice with as much dignity and assurance as I could muster, and tossed my head.  My adversary indulged in what might have been a smirk, but the deepening darkness made the detail uncertain.  Leaning back on his elbows, he kicked his legs parallel to the roof, then let them fall.  All the while he watched me calmly, almost amusedly.  Neither of us was willing to concede.  A particularly gusty breeze reminded me, though, of the sweatshirt he had so freely given me, and I chose to yield in the favor of kindness.

                "Do you live here?" I asked hesitantly.

                "Yup."

                "Well, since we're going to be neighbors, we might as well introduce ourselves.  I'm Relena Dorlain," I said, shifting forward and extending a hand across the gap.  He leaned forward also, swinging a calloused hand around to grasp mine in a firm shake.

                "Heero Yuy."  Releasing my hand, he leaned back again, staring this time at the black shingles beneath him.  Several moments of quiet passed before a voice floated up from within Heero's house.  He cocked his head and listened, then rose, stepping through his window.  He got one leg through before I remembered his sweatshirt.

                "Wait! Your sweatshirt!" I called, while frantically trying to remove the clothing over my head.

                "Don't worry about it.  You're not going anywhere," Heero replied as he disappeared into his house.  I stared at the empty roof for a moment, then snuggled deeper into the sweatshirt, and lay down to find the constellations. 

                This fall marks my third year of successful adaptation to the difficult transformation of my life.  Autumn this year is golden, the air still warm and soft.  As juniors, we've been given the privilege of open campus, and with the beautiful fall weather, lunch on the wide, green lawn has become a daily habit.

                We usually congregate under a huge gingko tree, near to one of the meandering cement paths that traverse the lawn.  A little ways beyond our tree lies the calm oval surface of a pond, blindingly sparkling in the midday sunlight.  Beneath other trees gather groups of juniors, seniors, and the occasional errant sophomore.  

                Last period's English test was long, and I had to continue as the rest of my class, including my friends, filed out for lunch.  Ten minutes later, Heero was waiting quietly beside the door when I walked out, arms folded across his chest.  Together, we walked silently out to the front lawn.  As we came nearer, I could see the backpacks and notebooks that had been hastily dropped in the inviting shade.  The eight had been, and gone off in search of today's lunch.

                Heero and I dumped our bags gratefully into an empty space on the cool grass.  I collapsed beside my books with a contented sigh and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, legs stretched out in front of me.  Absent mindedly, I brushed a piece of dirt off my jeans, throwing Heero a slanted smile.  He glared back at me sternly before stalking off to get us lunch.

                "No pepperoni!" I called after him.  His response was an exasperated nod.  Everyday we got lunch from Little Italy.  Heero always went to pick up our lunch; I always sat and relaxed beneath the tree.  Usually, though, there were other people – 

                "Hey Relena!" came the rambunctious shout from behind me.  Unconsciously I tensed, bracing myself for impact.  When none immediately followed, I relaxed a bit.  Only to be slammed by Duo sliding into my unprotected back.  He followed this with a quick hug, squeezing me breathless.  In a moment he was up, dancing over to Hilde to retrieve his massive lunch.

                Hilde approached at a more sedate pace, dropping fluidly down beside me.  Duo was still prancing around us in anticipation, nearly hitting me with his wildly swinging braid.  I smiled sympathetically at Hilde and rolled my eyes.  Slowly, she removed the Chinese food from the bag, a malicious smirk gracing her lively face; Duo became, if possible, even more frenetic, rubbing his hands and hopping from foot to foot.   Unable to control himself any longer, Duo dove at the food, scooping up several of the little white boxes.  Sparing Hilde and I a quick smile, he attacked the food, viciously shoveling rice and lo mein into his mouth.

                "Want some?" he asked me at a pause in his gluttony, shoving the container in my direction.  I shook my head and smiled.

                "Heero's bringing my food," I responded, jerking my head in the direction of Little Italy.  Duo grinned wickedly, throwing another spoonful of rice in his mouth.

                "Heero's your bitch," he said, cackling around his fork.  Hilde reached over and slapped the back of Duo's head absent mindedly, finishing with a sharp tug of the braid.  I giggled, not a bit offended, or even surprised.  Duo had always acted like this, and made these comments, since the day I'd met him.

                Up until this golden day in July, the only person in my neighborhood who I knew was Heero.  This day, like most others, had seen me swimming and running with Heero.  Now, dusk had fallen, leaving the street in a hazy, blue-gray, washing out all but the most vibrant colors.  Heero and I were playing soccer in the dusty street; he had promised to teach me some of the basic skills.  I was practicing chipping the ball, and had just managed a fairly strong and high one.  Precisely, Heero got underneath the ball, prepared to trap or head it.

                Suddenly a shape hurtled out of the increasing gloom, planting its hands on Heero's shoulders and boosting itself above his head.  The shape, actually a rangy little boy, neatly headed the ball before both he and his support crashed to the ground.  I ran over to the tangled heap of boys; the forgotten ball rolled to a stop in front of my stairs.  

                "Heero," I whispered plaintively at the motionless bodies.  I was afraid to approach, afraid of what had attacked Heero, afraid of them lying so still in the street.  Suddenly Heero flew into life, landing a flurry of punches on the skinny kid who had leaped on him.  The other boy responded, flailing one arm wildly, the other shielding his face.  Panting hard, Heero pulled away, deigning to give the new boy a stony glare.  The ragamuffin was unfazed, and turned to me with a charming smile.

                "Hey babe, my name's Duo!  Who are you?" he asked, his sweet tone contrasting sharply with the wolfish grin he bore.  Like Heero, and all other children in the neighborhood, Duo was disheveled, covered in scratches and bruises, smeared with dirt.  Distinctive though, was his hair, which was kept in a neat brown braid that fell halfway down his back.  I smiled back shyly, unnerved by his eagerness.

                "This is Relena Dorlain," Heero replied curtly, before I could even open my mouth to answer.  He was still glaring at Duo, but had relaxed and uncurled his hands from their fists.  Duo stood and brushed himself off, jutting out a hand in my direction.  I clasped it, and felt my arm vigorously shaken.

                "Nice to meet you! You new around here?" he asked excitedly, shifting constantly from foot to foot.  

                "Yeah, I just moved in to number 22," I answered, losing some of my initial shyness.  While a little overwhelming, Duo was genuinely nice.  He flicked his head in Heero's direction, grinning at the silent boy, still grasping my hand tightly.

                "Oh really?  I live across the street, in that yellow house.  You live next to Heero!  Your neighbor beat me up pretty good.  Didn't you buddy?" The last he called over his shoulder at Heero, waving broadly with his other hand.  

"You wouldn't know even know I'm his best friend," Duo said airily, turning back to me.  Still smirking he stepped back, giving me an appraising look.  I chose to stare at the ground, suddenly feeling exceptionally self-conscious.

                "So, this your new girlfriend, Yuy?"  I whipped my head up at that, already feeling the blush creep over my cheeks.  My embarrassment was nothing compared to Heero's.  Even I could see his agitation, the angry spark in his eyes and manner.  Duo laughed it off, and I joined him.  It was only a joke, intended to make Heero annoyed.

                "You eat dinner yet Duo?" I asked.  Every passing moment I felt more comfortable with this lean, mischievous boy.

                "As a matter of fact, no.  And I'm absolutely starving!"

                "Well, the two of you are more than welcome to come over," I said cheerfully, making sure to catch Heero's eyes.  He was calming, resigned to my association with his frenetic friend.  Calmly as ever he walked over to join us.  The darkness was deeper now as we turned back to the house, Duo on my left, Heero on my right.  I slid my arms around one each of theirs, felt them tighten their arms in response, and we walked together, inextricably linked.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. – Please, please help me with this.  I need a) a new title b) a new plot and c) a communist revolution.  At least that's what I was going to throw in.  You know, Relena on soapbox, "Workers of the world unite!" and all that.  Spice it up a bit, shake off the moody teenage vibe. Disclaimer: Do I need to do anymore disclaiming?  They could not be less mine.   Chapter 2 

Now I am still sandwiched in between the two boys.  Heero returned with our lunch – mushroom pizza for me, steak sub for himself – and dropped to the ground on my other side.  The four of us ate in silence, busily concentrating on our own food.  

                "Hey guys!"

                In unison, we turned towards the source of the light, cheery voice.  Quatre and Trowa were approaching across the lawn, each toting a salad.  They settled in the open edge of the circle, laying the ground with their napkins and utensils, busily preparing to eat.  

                "What did you think of the English test?" Quatre asked around a mouthful of lettuce.  I groaned in response and rolled my eyes; Duo stuck out his tongue, not a pretty sight considering it was covered in fried shrimp bits.  

                "It was fair," responded Heero curtly, looking up briefly at the group.  Duo promptly lobbed a ball of grass at him, followed by a stick.

                "Fair!  Of course it's fair, because you're a genius!" I retorted.  Heero turned a mildly bored yet reproachful look on me for my teasing.  The effect was ruined though, by the bits of grass still clinging to his hair.  In spite of myself I started giggling.  Hilde followed suit, and the boys wore wide smiles.  Heero grimaced at out levity and roughly shook his head, checking to be sure every blade had been removed.

                Conversation sprung from there, transforming our silent lunch of a few minutes past into a merry bubble of chatter.  I hung back a bit, watching them talk, throwing in the occasional quip and comment.  Quatre had infused the group with vitality, conveying his convivial nature to everyone in the group.  Naturally sociable, that peculiar talent for empathizing and bonding with people is innate to him.  You're drawn to talk to him, compelled to like him.

                I walked into my history class on the first day of freshman year and saw not one of my few friends.  True, I had known that they would not be there – we had received our schedules in August – but it was still a shock to be plunged completely into oblivion in my first period of my first day of high school.  Mentally, I knew no one had even noticed me enter the room; people were greeting friends and saving seats, safely wrapped in their own self-centered worlds.  This rational understanding had no affect on my emotional response; I blushed and dropped my gaze to my shoes, shuffling past everyone towards the back of the room.  

                My empty backpack made a soft whispery crunch as it collapsed on the floor.  A soft, slightly nauseous feeling was seeping through the bottom of my stomach.  Sitting there, rigid and anxious, I resisted the intense urge to sink slowly into my seat, out of the group consciousness of the class.  Every nerve alive and tingling, I was isolated, lonely, in a room full of people.  

                Imagine my shock to find a quiet blond boy seated next to me, looking over as if I was the most riveting and vital individual in his reality.  A bright smile suffused his face when he realized I had noticed him.  Without a trace of hesitation he extended his hand.

                "My name's Quatre.  Are you new to Whistler's?" he asked pleasantly.  Still dazed by his eager gaze, I paused a moment before reaching to grasp his hand across the desk.  His skin was warm and soft, so different from the tough and callused hands of my friends.  Internally I blushed as his hand ran over the beginning of a callus on my palm.

                "Yeah, we just moved here this summer.  I'm Relena," I said, stuttering slightly in my nervousness.  He was still smiling, still concentrating on me.  The attention settled me, grounded me back in the classroom.

                "Where did you move from?"

                "Um, California."

                "Those long jumps are really hard.  I was in culture shock for weeks after my family moved," he said conversationally, leaning towards me.  

                "Where did you move from?" I asked.  I relaxed, accepting the honesty and interest at face value.

                "Saudi Arabia.  My dad's company was based there for a long time.  It was really hard to adjust to life here.  Don't worry you'll relax into it soon enough," and he patted my arm reassuringly, smiling openly.

                "Well, I don't really know many people.  And none of the ones I know are girls," I murmured nervously.

                "Friends will come easy to you.  I can tell.  You'll attract good people to you," he said confidently, smiling.  I wanted to believe him; I did believe him, if only for a second.  He radiated confidence and kindness.  Around us the swirling conversations had died, indicating the return of our teacher.  With a last warm smile Quatre swiveled to face front, leaning towards the teacher with the same quiet absorption and interest he had shown me.  I turned also, straightening from my anonymous slouch, leaning over forward in the desk.  I ran a finger over the names and swears that had been scored into the plastic top.

                For an hour we sat, listening to our teacher – Mr. DiCensi – detail the course.  Orange and blue handouts were stuffed into my notebook.  He was young and inspired, a teacher with palpable passion for his subject and for his new students.  Obviously he had not taught much before.  My mind wandered after the first ten minutes; I took to analyzing my peers, looking for those "good people" Quatre had said I would attract.  Most were nondescript.  Girls with ponytails and dyed blond hair, snapping their gum with placidly bored expressions, sat among boys who were busily writing on the desks, unconsciously flexing the muscles they had built with such care.  In the back, dark boys and girls hung together, pierced and made up in heavy eye makeup, their hair dyed in all shades of unnatural neon colors.  Another two girls sat on the far side of Quatre, vibrant in their lounging sprawl over the desk, smiling slightly and toying with their pens.  

                My gaze found Quatre occasionally, watching his rapt attention in the teacher, even half an hour into the lecture.  When he looked to me, his eyes catching mine with a fraternal smile, I smiled in return, a weak imitation of the glow he had given.  Instinctively my confidence swells, my relief rising on the tide, spilling from my eyes.  With grace and calm you turn back to the lecture, leaving me to internalize that peace.

                The bell rang, and as one body the class surged from their seats, rushing and eddying around the narrow door.  I lingered a moment beyond the churning exodus, gathering my bags.  Quatre had paused by the door, speaking with the two vivacious girls I had noticed earlier.  In unison the two turned and left together, throwing a final thoughtful glance at me.

                Quatre wandered over in my direction, hands caught in his pockets.  I hefted my bag and turned on my heel, facing him with a bright, if inquisitive smile.

                "That was Hilde and Sally.  Nice girls.  What class do you have next?"  he asked.

                "Algebra, with Ms. Turner," I answered with a cursory glance at my schedule.  I had already memorized it.

                "Great.  I think that's where I am too.  We'll walk over together," he said cheerfully.  He held the door open for me; still wearing that contented half smile.  The hall was a milling, aimless swarm of students and teachers, attending to their own small affairs.  Quatre showered hellos and smiles along the way, making a brief connection with each person he addressed.  Lost in our conversation we walked to math, our steps in perfect harmony. 

                 The bell rang as I was picking up the trash from my lunch.  With a collective groan we rose and gathered our stuff, tossing each other bags and notebooks.  Duo launched his bag at Heero, who deftly caught it, bestowing another glare on the grinning hooligan.  Laughing we turned back towards the school, the second warning bell clanging angrily.  

                Heero and Duo peeled off to the left across the lawn; their math class was on the opposite side of the quad.  Quatre and Hilde left us in the lobby, striding briskly towards the history building.  Hilde's chatter echoed down the hall from beyond the closed blue doors.  A few students were still scurrying through the lobby, hurrying to their next class before the final bell rang.

                Trowa and I meandered through the lobby, turning left into the link.  Light filled the hallway, let in through the glass windows and ceiling; there was a beautiful view of the lawn on the left, the vivid gardens on the right.  We walked in silence, not wanting to break the peaceful luminescence of the glass corridor.  

                This hall is my favorite place in the school.  It's calm and beautiful, presenting only the thinnest of barriers between the elements and me.  No matter what weather, the link is beautiful and calm.  I can't bear to speak here, to break the spell of light and glass.

                Turning through the blue doors, into the gray and brown corridor left a purple and green glow before my eyes.  Late freshmen were scurrying to class with harried faces, clutching at their books.  Trowa and I pass the double doors at the end of the hallway; I wave to a few acquaintances as we pass our history class.  

Still silent, we walk downstairs, passing the gyms, into the cavernous service entrance at the ground floor.  We found it freshman year, cutting English class to have an extra hour of lunch.  The service entrance itself is dirty concrete, filled with dust and moldering boxes.  However, the door hidden behind a pile of desks leads into a spacious and clean room.  Dusty, true, but it is dust that hasn't been disturbed in decades.  Or at least, it hadn't been until we discovered it.

                Trowa tossed me an orange, vaulting onto his favorite perch atop an old desk.  We peeled our oranges silently, and I occasionally snuck a glance in his direction.  The quiet was comfortable, natural.

                In late August of that first year, both Heero and Duo abandoned me.  The two had taken off for Birmingham for a week, dragged by unfeeling parents who did not understand the priceless nature of summer days.  Quite alone, I spent nearly every day sitting forlornly on my front steps, drawing in the dust with a stick, watching the smaller neighborhood children play.  

                After three days of watching this behavior, my brother shoved me off the steps and forbade me to enter the house until I had done something.  Implacable, arms folded across his chest, blond hair blowing slightly in the wind, my brother met my glare.  The showdown lasted for ten minutes, before I finally turned on my heel and stalked away.  Stalked away defiantly.  

                I walked down our street towards the beach, hopping the rusty little fence that separated the street from the sand.  I quickly divested myself of shoes and socks, rolling up the cuffs of jeans till they were at my knees.  Picking up my footwear, I walked down to the shoreline.

                Nothing in the world feels better than bare feet on warm sand.  The water was chilly, at least to my Californian senses.  Duo constantly asserted that the bay was incredibly warm, akin to bathwater even.  I asserted that he was raving mad.  Despite the chill I waded in, and the rolled edges of jeans began to get wet.  The water was clear here, and I saw, glimmering, just out of reach a large, perfect clamshell.  

                Until this point I had not realized how silly it was to carry my shoes and socks with me while wading.  I shifted my shoes to one hand and reached under to grab the clamshell.  I was quite pleased with myself and my strategy for staying dry and acquiring the shell.  Then a crab ran over my foot.

                I jumped and started, losing the shell and my balance. I threw my hand holding the shoes up in the air, hoping when I fell, that they would remain dry.  Reeling desperately, I tilted backwards, certain I would come home wet and humiliated, all to my brother's amusement.

                Instead of a splash, I fell over into a person, my upraised arm hitting them neatly on the forehead.  Outrage and embarrassment fought within me.  I turned smartly and settled for my most infuriated look.  My unsolicited rescuer was a boy, whose face looked to be about my age, but whose height would have put him much older.  Obviously a neighborhood kid, dressed in the unofficial uniform of ragged cut off jeans and grimy hand-me-down t-shirts.  The clothes looked a little small on him, and he slumped to hide his height.  

                "Why were you creeping up behind me?" I asked, my voice squeaking with petulance.  He did not reply, but locked eyes with me.  Only one green orb was visible, the other hidden behind a hank of brown hair.  Calm and collected, he was, but obviously not inclined to speak.

                "You shouldn't do that.  It's very unnerving," I snapped, a little put off by the silence.  We lapsed into another pause.

                "I mean, thank you for keeping me up, but it gave me an awful start," I said weakly, wilting beneath the affable quiet, "And, sorry for hitting you in the forehead.  You have red mark there now, but it shouldn't bruise."

                "No harm done," he replied quietly.  

                "I'm Relena Dorlain.  I just moved in a couple weeks ago."

                "Trowa Barton," he extended his hand, "I saw you with Heero and Duo."

                "Do you live on the street?" I inquired, trying to suppress the urge to speak meekly.

                "Kitty-corner to you."

                "Oh…I thought that house was closed up," I replied, trying to summon a little strength into my voice.  His conversation was not forced, but he spoke so softly it encouraged quiet.

                "We travel in the summer."

                "Oh."

                And we fell silent from there.  Slowly, I began to feel the water lapping around my knees, and the squishy wet sand between my toes, the slight breeze.  I gave him a look, and we both turned towards the beach. 

                The sun was hot, and dried my legs quickly.  Trowa was indisposed to talk, content to sit quietly beside me.  He was staring straight ahead over the bay; I took the moment to study his profile, see the right eye that previously had been obscured.  Becoming shy again I looked down, twisted my fingers through the sand, leaving faint curling lines.  

                Rougher, larger hands joined mine, twisting patterns around and through my own.  We sat for hours together, creating and destroying our masterpieces.  The sun set around us, as we played, comfortable in a silence broken only by the flow of water and soft hiss of shifting sand.                                 


	3. Chapter 3

                The bell rang, sounding muffled and distant in our hideaway.  With a sigh I picked up my bag and carefully removed the orange peels from the desk, brushing them into a paper bag.  Trowa already stood beside me, bag hefted on shoulder, smiling slightly as I brushed at nonexistent orange crumbs.

                "I don't think anyone would notice a stray crumb," he remarked quietly, still smirking at me.  I wrinkled my nose, and stuck out my tongue.  It was childish action, but cute, and I was gratified by the quiet rumble of laughter from my companion.  I turned and tripped out, glancing back over my shoulder as he followed at a more sedate pace, carefully shutting the door behind us.  

                Wufei was waiting for us outside the door of our skipped History class.  He was glaring at us, black eyebrows drawn into a thick knot.  I could almost see the vein in his forehead pulsing as we strolled towards him.  Smiling cheerily all the while, I waved and crossed my eyes as we approached, throwing him every goofy look I could think of.  True to form, his face darkened, black eyes flashing with irritation.

                "Chang."

                "Barton."

                The boys nodded at each other as Wufei fell in step beside us, still glowering.  From the corner of my eye, I could see Trowa's amused expression.  Fighting to cover my giggles, I turned to our fuming friend.

                "How was history Wufei?" I asked brightly, throwing him my toothiest smile.  He grimaced in reply, and his face, if possible, turned redder.

                "Injustice!  Onna!  You!  It's–," he spluttered before turning to Trowa.  "And you!  From her – but I expected more honor from you!  Abetting her in her wickedness!" he spat out venomously.

                "Yes, well, we evil women have a way of leading men astray," I sighed innocently, fingering a lock of my hair.  A hefty snort was my only response.  

                "Wufei, I depend on you to counteract her deceptive forces," Trowa said evenly.  I don't know how he managed to keep his voice steady, or maintain that contrite look on his face.  Unable to control myself, I burst out laughing.

                "Oh, very funny indeed.  Don't expect me to lend such ignoble people my lecture notes," he snapped, descending to his normal state of general agitation.  Trowa smirked and peeled off down the opposite hallway, leaving Wufei and I on our walk to chemistry.  He was still silent; shooting me annoyed sideways glances and muttering under his breath.

                "Wufei, this is just one of those things you need to get over.   It's not like it's a rare occurrence," I said.  A heavy sigh was all the response I would receive, but I knew he had forgiven my transgression.  And I knew he would lend me his notes, while he condescendingly recounted the lecture details for me.

                The fall of freshman year, I spent hours searching for the perfect place to study.  The beach at the end of our street, while peaceful enough, was no place to do homework.  Sand kept lodging in the bookbindings, and my papers always ended up a blown across the strand by a stiff breeze.  At home it was quiet, but it was the oppressive, wistful silence of a lonely house.  Studying with Heero was just like studying alone, but with Duo the homework never got done.  However, there was one place I could go to study alone, but not feel lonely.

                The graveyard was a riot of color in the fall.  Massive oak and maple trees were beginning to change, bursting into flames of red and yellow and orange.  The willows and the grass were still green, though slightly faded.  I loitered on the path, passing beneath rows of graven angels and saints as I slowly made my way towards my favorite tree.

                It was a towering maple, off in the center of one of the grassy lanes.  Lines of granite graves, worn and weathered, ran along both edges of the grass avenue.  With reverential silence I treaded the grass, creeping quietly up on the base of the tree.  I laid a small wildflower on one of the graves.  Perhaps it was just my superstitious nature, but the oppressive air of watching seemed to dissipate.

                My books around me, I fell to studying, busily absorbed in my notes and homework.  Time flew by without my notice, and the sun began to creep towards the horizon.  The buzz of insects, the song of the birds was assimilated into the background, tuned out.  Nor did I realize when I shifted position, moving from sitting cross-legged to lying on my stomach.

                Suddenly, though, I became aware of being watched.  The hairs on my neck were prickling, and a wave of cold ran down my body.  Frozen to the spot, I feared to turn and see who was there, while trying to assure myself I was imagining things.  Finally, scolding myself for silliness, I steeled my nerves and flipped around.

                As soon as I had looked I sprang up form the ground, shifting backwards nervously.  A Chinese boy, about my age, had been standing quietly behind me, arms folded across his chest.  He did not move, didn't even blink as I reacted.

                "Why are you watching me?" I asked petulantly, my voice ringing in the silence.  No response was offered.  

                "Why are you here?" I tried, mentally working to calm myself.

                "That is no business of yours.  This is not your graveyard," he said evenly, still staring unblinking at me.  I walked a bit closer, my courage trickling back.

                "You were watching me.  That is my business.  Why?" I asked calmly.

                "You put flowers on my sister's grave," he said strongly.  I turned to look at the grave I had visited earlier, had graced with flowers as I had every time I came.  Zhen Chang, barely five years old when she passed.  

                "I'm sorry.  I…" I broke off, unable to explain.

                "Zhen died with dignity.  The honor you have conferred is well given," was all he said, still staring straight ahead.  Motionless as the granite saints around us, yet his eyes were full with pain.  Suddenly he stiffened and turned to me.  "I have seen you here often."

                "I come to study, because it's so peaceful."

                "Indeed.  I practice here in the evenings," he said, brushing by me as he walked towards the tree.  Kneeling, pristine white pants just inches away from the dirt, he flipped over my history book and examined the cover.

                "I take this class.  Only I am in the afternoon section."

                "Yeah, I'm in the morning.  We had a lot of work for it tonight," I replied, moving over to crouch beside him.  He snorted.

                "Hardly.  It is quite manageable," he grumbled.  "You have done well too, for a girl," he muttered condescendingly.  In his hands was one of my old reports, a bright red A emblazoned on the first page.

                "Good for anyone," I replied tartly, flushing a little at his arrogant manner.  A cool glare was my only answer.  Closing my book, he stood fluidly.  Swiftly he crossed to his sister's grave, laying a bundle of white lilies beside my wildflowers and bowing his head for a moment.  As abruptly he returned to my side, helping me as I gathered my papers and books.

                "Are you walking?" he asked curtly, handing me a notebook.

                "Yes.  I'm only over on Westing Street."  I shouldered my bag, clutching the history book to my chest.

                "I'll walk with you.  It's not wise, nor safe, for a girl to walk alone at night," he said.  I nodded, and decided to ignore the slight disdain in his inflection.  After all, it was gallant offer, and quite welcome as the sun was merely a blot of color on the horizon.  Beside me, he waited. 

                "Mr. Chang, what may I call you?" I asked politely.

                "I am Wufei."

                "And I am Relena.  Relena Darlian."

                Then there was silence.  We walked off together past the trees, underneath the brilliant foliage turned even brighter by the dying red rays of the sun. 


	4. Chapter 4

                "And that's it.  As far as I'm concerned, you're free to go.  Might as well start the weekend off right," Mr. Devito said, and smiled as he snapped the chemistry book shut.  The class cheered and clapped before rushing the door, anxious to be free.  I took my time, putting my books away slowly, half lost in thought.  Wufei had taken off like a shot to find Sally before their respective soccer practices, leaving me on my own.  A few moments later I also wandered out into the silent hall.  Forgoing a trip to my locker, and a jacket, I instead headed for the front doors, and pushed out into the chilly autumn afternoon.

                Behind me a bell rang, and the school erupted.  Students rushed from their classes, flooding the halls in a joyous weekend fever.  I smiled, content in the knowledge that I was well down the stairs, away from the chaos, and free for two days.  There's nothing quite like a weekend to raise your spirits.  Time for sleeping, for friends, for a little relaxation.

                Shivers quickly overtake me; it's become chillier since lunch, and a brisk breeze has sprung up.  I clasp my chemistry book tight to my chest, uselessly trying to hold a little heat to my body.  Goosebumps are running in waves down my bare arms; only so much can be warmed by my hands, no matter how tightly I squeeze my fingers.  About now, I'm starting to regret not stopping for my jacket.  Another massive chill races up my spine, physically shaking my body on its way.

                Warmth.  Heavy and warm, a jacket has been dropped over my shoulders.  Automatically I unwind my arms from around myself, slip them into the jacket arms.  Worn and frayed, but it holds the heat in.  I know this jacket, like an old friend.  I snuggle into it, pull it closed, and cross my arms over my chest to hold it shut. 

                "Buttoning it would be more effective."  Indeed, it is an old friend; I turn to the owner of the voice.  Heero is standing behind me, hands jammed into his back pockets, sports bag slung across his chest.  I smile at him, and halt, wait for him to make his way up beside me.

                "I don't like buttoning it," I answer smartly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.  

                "You don't like the way it looks when you button it," Heero says sternly.  He's only playing though.  I can see the hint of a smile in his face, and his shoulders are relaxed.  An unusual good mood; I should take advantage of it.

                "Well, I only want to look cute!" I joke, overemphasizing my kidding.  Just one of the safety precautions I have to take with someone so exceptionally literal.

                "You don't have to walk around in the cold half dressed to look cute," he admonishes.  

                "I'm all the way dressed!" I exclaim hotly, and punch him lightly on the shoulder.  He looks at me and smirks, pleased with himself for provoking me.  Hold on a second though – "So, you think I'm cute?" I ask – I'll admit – just a little coyly.  

                Heero starts, and throws me a look.  Not a glare.  Not a smirk.  A Look.  Capital L.  I can almost hear his breath hitch, see a little bit of a blush stain his cheeks.  Shoulders tense up, fingers twitch randomly.  He's stuttering a bit, but not answering; genuinely nervous.  

                "Why aren't you at soccer practice?" I ask, deftly switching topics, throwing him something safe to cling to.  The relief is palpable.

                "Cancelled.  A rare gift from the coach."  

                "Duo must be happy."

                "He was off to find Hilde before I'd finished reading the announcement," Heero replied exasperatedly, rolling his eyes.

                "Oh come on.  They're in love," I laughed.  A stare, one eyebrow quirked in derision, was my only answer.  "You know you want that too," I said evilly, and punched him lightly on the arm.  He snorted, then hip checked me.  Balance gone, I wavered for a second on my heels, arms out.  Grabbing me, he pulled me upright, steadied me, laughing all the while.

                "Hello, Heero!  You almost pushed me into oncoming traffic!" I fumed.

                "That was the point."

                This time I punch him a lot harder.       

                Heero left me at my front steps, mumbling a hurried goodbye before stalking off to his house, leaving me with his jacket.  Inside it's dark and a little cold still.  Milliardo hasn't been home; Mother's still sleeping.  I slip upstairs, not bothering to turn on a light.  Upstairs I quietly push through my door and make a controlled leap onto my bed, rolling over until I'm staring at the window upside down.

                I'm used to coming home to a silent, empty house.  Well, not really empty.  My mother's downstairs, asleep in her room at the back of the house.  She works the night shift in obstetrics, has since we moved to Whistler's.  Every morning she drags herself in from work, dead on her feet, as I leave for school.  Occasionally at night she eats dinner with Milliardo and I, but usually she's rushing out the door with only a quick kiss and goodbye.

                My mother used to be an elegant woman, all carefully trimmed blonde hair and manicured nails, soft skin and gentle manners.  She wore her wealth like a classy dress: so understated that you couldn't help but notice it.  Directing servants, organizing charity work, planning social functions – that was where she shone, where she was comfortable.  California, with the sunny weather and refined wilderness, was her natural complement.

                Then Father died, and there was no longer money for electric bills, let alone servants, and we moved across the country to a cold, sulky climate where she had to work exhausting hours.  She was still the same woman; still tall and blonde.  But her eyes were heavy with constant dark circles, and the luster had left her hair leaving it dark and lank.  Hollowed out by fatigue and despair, she'll never be the same sparkling, sophisticated woman I remember.

                Something is scraping on the roof outside my window.  I roll off the bed and pad over, push the window up with a creak.  It's Trowa, sitting with his legs crossed, back to me, leaning against the frame of the house. 

                "Hey Tro," I call softly.  He turns to glance at me and smiles.  A notebook and our math text are cradled in his lap, pencil stuck behind his ear.  A couple of minutes later we're settled comfortably on the bed, books open, calculators out.  We sit in the usual comfortable silence, working diligently – at least in his case (I'm doodling in the margin) – on the math. 

                "So, did you walk Quatre home?" I ask innocently.  Today a little bit of devil's gotten into me, and I can't stand the silence.   I gaze at Trowa, with an open, calm face.  Something flashes in that visible emerald eye, and the nature of his face shifts subtly.  He doesn't respond, but looks pointedly at Heero's jacket, which I'm still wearing.  I don't blush, or let my gaze falter, but I can feel my face undergo that same subtle shift that his experienced just moments ago.               

                "It's not like that, Trowa," I say, just a little defensively.  This game is not so fun when it's been turned on you.  "It's never been like that, never will be."  I cast my eyes down at the math paper, redouble my efforts of working upon it. Looking at him from beneath my eyelashes I can see just a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

                While we work away quietly in my room, the downstairs begins to come alive.  I hear the familiar sound of my mother waking; the shower runs, metallic crashes and the squeaks and groans of old kitchen appliances being coaxed into use.  Guess it will be jut Milliardo and me for dinner tonight.

                The door opens, slams shut, and someone takes the stairs three at a time.  My brother is home, charging into his room, a man on a mission.  Through the thin wall we can hear him jerking open drawers, swearing softly when falls on his foot.  Then he's in my room, banging the door against the wall and sweeping over to the bed.  

                "Have to work tonight, kid.  Sorry.  I'll bring home something to make up for it," he says, the words rushing out of his mouth too fast.  He sweeps me up into a massive bear hug, and bolts from the room, flying down the stairs and out the door.  A few moments later I hear my mother follow at a more sedate pace, off to catch the early bus.  

                "Trowa – "

                "Not today.  Cathy and I have an appearance in Birmingham tonight.  I should be going now, in fact," he answered me softly.   He slid out onto the porch, then turned back to me.  One genuine, reassuring smile and he was gone, leaping lightly off the roof and heading towards his home.  I could see Cathy outlined in the doorway against the warm glow of the house waiting for him.  

My house was dark and empty.  Remains of Mother's dinner were in the sink.  Milliardo hadn't even bothered; he'd probably eat at The Riptide.  I slowly wandered around the small downstairs, stopping at the front windows.  Outside the street was gloomy and dark.  All the children had been called home.  Adults had either already come home from, of left for, work.  Many of the windows were yellow and warm.                              Regretfully I turned back to my house, sat down on the threadbare couch.  Usually about this time Milliardo would be cooking dinner.  I would be helping, or hindering, depending on my mood.  Instead, the house was dark.

When we moved here Milliardo, in all the maturity of his sixteen years, had found himself a job and a friend within a week.  He got a job at The Riptide, a local nightclub and restaurant near the beach.  While he was still in high school he worked nights and weekends as a waiter.  Treize, 18 and a senior at the high school, also happened to work the same shift, was also a waiter, and was also the owner's son – though Milliardo didn't find that out for quite a while.  The two became fast friends.        

This year, though, everything was supposed to change.  Milliardo had done well in school.  Certainly no genius, but still intelligent, and he was fully sure that he could get into college, and more importantly, receive enough financial aid.  Long story short: he got into college; he did not receive enough financial aid.  So he went back to work at The Riptide full time, hoping to make enough money so that he could eventually finish his education.  This past summer he'd been upgraded to a bartender, and filled in as a DJ or a bouncer when needed.  Going by his outfit, I expect he was spinning tonight.

I hauled myself off the couch.  It's no good sitting and brooding in the dark.  For one thing I'm hungry and the food won't make itself.  Almost I'm tempted to leave the lights off, to make a statement about my emotional condition.  But it's hard to cook in the dark.  

Upon opening the fridge, which is depressingly short on edibles, the hunger pains begin to disappear, and in a couple of moments I'm no longer desiring dinner.  An apple from the bowl on the counter and I head back upstairs.  

The window's still open from Trowa's exit.  I slide out onto the roof and lie down.  Tonight's clear, and the stars are all visible.  They're always brighter in the fall, something about the cold air.  It makes them feel closer, more intense.  The apple tastes good too, crisp and sweet, a little sour too.  I should be cold, lying out here in the night.  Ah, that's right.  I'm still wearing Heero's jacket.  Well, might as well make good use of it.

"Am I going to have to steal that back form you?"

I conceal my surprise at the sharp words and turn my head to look at him slowly.

"'Lo Heero.  Cold?"  I smile at him, wave with my apple.  He grunts and swings his legs around so they're hanging off the edge of his roof.  For a moment we just sit there, looking at each other in silence.

He hops across the gap in a second, and has stepped carefully over me to crouch on the other side before I'm fully aware of what's going on. 

"Pretty agile, aren't you.  Should've been a gymnast.  Now don't let Trowa see you make faces like that, he'll beat you up," I tease, smiling up at him, arms behind my head.  

"He could try," Heero snorts in response.

"You eaten yet?"

"No."

"I'm all alone for dinner tonight – Milliardo has to DJ.  You want to eat here?" I ask.  He shrugs and stands gracefully, slipping through the window and into my room.  I roll my eyes, pick myself up off the roof, and follow him inside.

"Guess that's a yes."


	5. Chapter 5

                Heero was giving the refrigerator a brooding stare when I came down the stairs.  A packet of ground beef, some cheese, and half of a truly pathetic head of lettuce were already lying on the counter.  He turned as I approached, arms crossed over his chest, and treated me to a singularly unimpressed glare.

                "Is this all you have?" he asked, eyes flicking over to the food.

                "Pretty much.  Unless you want spaghetti sans sauce," I replied, and knelt down to retrieve a pan from the lower cabinet, which he took from my hand.  A harassed huff came form somewhere in the direction of the stove, followed by the thunk of raw meat into the pan.  My cue to start setting the table.  

                "You finish all your homework?" I asked.

                "Yes, mother."

                "Just asking a question.  No need to snap at me."  And I grinned at his back.  The pop and sizzle of cooking meat filled the silence.  I walked around the table, adding forks and spoons to the plates I had already laid out.  

                "You going out with Duo tonight?" 

                "No, he and Hilde are…" he trailed off, waving a hand meaningfully.

                "Ah, enjoying each other's company," I supplied.

                "Something like that."  Another silence began.  Not too long though.  "What about you?"

                "Maybe finishing up my homework – " I was interrupted by a groan from the direction of the stove.  I left the table and began to slowly saunter in that direction.  

                "Please don't tell me you were doing homework with Trowa this afternoon, Relena," he sighed loudly.  For a moment there I didn't realize he was teasing.    

                "What's wrong with being studious?" I asked, trying to force a mock angry look onto my face.  He gave me a sidelong glance, eyebrow quirked in skepticism.  

                "Nothing, nothing at all.  Only it's a Friday night, and homework really shouldn't be done until Sunday afternoon."

                "Trowa and I-"

                "Are incredible geeks," he finished for me.

                 "See who's getting dinner tonight then, won't we?" I fumed, hand son my hips, foot tapping lightly on the linoleum floor.  

                "I will.  I'm cooking it."  

                There's no response to an answer like that, and no dealing with some people.  So I turned and sat down.  Heero had almost finished with the burgers, and was standing there, apparently searching for something.

                "Relena, do you have any rolls?"  

                "No, but we have some bread in the cupboard."  He came to the table and put the cheeseburgers on the plates, looked dubiously at the head of lettuce on the counter, then looked questioningly at me.  I shook my head, winkling my nose at the offending vegetable.

                We ate quietly, sneaking glances at each other as we cut up our bare cheeseburgers, if they can even be called such without the bun.  I stood to get a drink – milk – and got him a glass of water as well, which he accepted with a slight grin.  When done, I washed the dishes, while Heero dried and put them away.  The pan was left for him.  Wordlessly he washed it, while I leaned against the table and waited.  Pan dried and put away at last, he turned back to me, copied my stance by leaning against the sink.

                "So, you never answered me."

                "What?" I asked.

                "What are you doing tonight?"

                "Oh, that…well, I don't know."  I walked around the downstairs turning off the lights, making my way to the stairs.  Heero remained leaning against the counter for a moment, just watching me.  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I was hyperaware of every movement I made; I felt robotic and jerky under his scrutiny.  It was unfamiliar and unnerving to feel him watching me, to feel so stiff when he's watching me.  As I reach the stairs, I hear him shift and pad over to stand behind me.

                We walk up the stairs in silence; I swear I can hear him breathing.  In the gloom and dark I catch my foot on the stairs.  A hand on my shoulder steadies me.  My breath hitches.  Did it linger on my shoulder a little longer than necessary?  

                By the time we reach my room my body's humming with tension.  Heero hasn't noticed anything.  He is utterly a boy.  A fact I am uncomfortably aware of right now.  He hoists the window open and goes out, then crouches down and offers his hand through.  I hesitate, and grab his jacket from the bed before taking a hold of his hand – and suppressing the warm tingle in my palm – and letting him pull me through the window.  

                He sat down, stretching out so his feet fell over the edge, and put his arms behind his head.  I sat down next to him, for once on the higher level.  Heero wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either, and that's saying a lot for him.  

                "So, what are we doing tonight?"

                "Oh, it's we now, is it?" I say softly, head tilted back to look up at the sky.  It's clear, and a big Cheshire moon is hanging low and white.  He doesn't respond, and I sneak a sideways glance at him.  His eyes are half closed, and in the darkness, I can't tell what he's looking at.  

                "It's always been we."  

                We sit in silence for a moment.  How do you reply to that without robbing it of all layers of meaning?

                "Only three years.  Not that long in the grand scheme of things."  He smiles, just a bit.  

                "Feels like it's been for always."

                We're silent again.  This time there really isn't anything I can say.  I chose instead to watch the bay, just visible and silvered in the way only water can be.  I chose to watch the stars twinkling high and far above, sparkling as they can only in autumn.  I chose to watch the street, dark and quiet as only a dead-end dirt road can be.

                "You don't really remember anything before all this, do you?"  His voice is a little gruff, and if I didn't know him so well, I would say it was uncertain.  This, however, is a question that will take a bit of thought.  Luckily my companion is not averse to quiet.  I wrap my arms tightly around myself, hold in a shiver.  I have a few scattered memories from my childhood, vignettes of birthday parties and Halloweens, images of friends from which the faces have long since faded into shadow.  And I remember my father.  In painful, articulate detail:  bedtime stories and games; dance recitals and swimming lessons; vacations at the beach where he would play with Milliardo and I on the dock like he was eight too; dancing with him at Aunt Elena's wedding and tripping over his shoes; going to work with him, and feeling like such an adult when he introduced me to his coworkers; watching him collapse in the hallway as he came to say goodnight; holding his hand, cold and pale, while he lay sleeping in the hospital bed with tubes connected all over; showing him my report card, all A's, and his hug of congratulations is so weak, and he's so fragile, I feel like I might break him; watching him through eyes too blurred with tears as he lies in his bed, peaceful, but not looking a bit like he's 'just sleeping'.  But I know that these aren't the memories Heero means.  He means the memories of best friends, and happy times, and he's right.  Though I know they were there, the only ones I can remember clearly now are the one's with my father.  

                "No…" and my voice fails me completely.  Tears are stinging at the corners of my eyes, and I'm shivering, more from the sobs I'm holding in than the cold.  Head down, hair falling in twin curtains blocking out the world, I breath, and gulp, and swallow the little mewling sobs I feel ripping up my throat.

                Arms come around me.  Drawn inexorably up against something warm and hard and reassuring.  One hand reaches up to pull my hair back over my shoulders, while the other rubs gently along my upper arm, squeezing lightly.  Mute translation.  Shift so my head is lying on a strong shoulder, and my body's been pulled half up into a lap.  Fingers, rough and calloused, run along my face, carefully wiping away the tears that have pooled in the corners of my eyes.  Stroking softly against my cheek, hesitant and feather light.  One soft, stray touch against my lips.  I shatter, and the tears and racking sobs pour out into the night air.  Grip on my body is strengthened, and I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, and cry till his shirt is soaked.  Nothing is said, not even whispered, but one hand runs soothingly up and down my back, and the other brushes and strokes my hair.  

                Intimate, in a way that transcends friendship, and I'll never be able to see him in quite the same light again.  He's strong and solid and real, stabilizing me through this storm, as he has done so many times before.  But this is new and vague, and he's not just a friend giving comfort anymore, whether or not he realizes it.  Right now though, all I know for sure is that he's holding me while my sobs die down, and my tears spend themselves out.  Not trying to comfort or console, just holding me as tightly and surely as he can, anchoring me in the only way he knows how, reassuring me through his physical presence that he is there, that he will always be there.  And I let myself go, knowing that he will be there to guide me back.


End file.
